Advent of the Protector
by Tenthwatcher
Summary: Life in Vault 47 is almost ideal. But nothing is forever in a Den of Thieves. Especially when ambition strikes. Set after the events of Fallout: New Vegas. OC, please R&R.
1. History Sucks

It began as a low, gentle tone repeated slowly, almost caring in its softness. But as time marched on, the soft tone became a buzzing note, agitated at being ignored. Several seconds passed by, and the agitated buzz became a high-pitched squeal. It thundered around the small space, intending to raise a cacophony to shake the high heavens.

At that point a hand slammed down on the alarm clock, silencing the peals of impatience. The form that huddled under the blankets began to shift around, revealing itself after throwing away the covers. The young man swung his legs over the side of the bed and yawned, running a hand through his bed-headed shock of black hair. He looked down at the alarm, and it showed him exactly what he thought he'd see; 9:31am, February 11, 2290. Grumbling, he got up, stretched, and shuffled over to the shower closet. The door hissed open as he divested himself of his boxers and tank top, and sealed shut behind him when he stepped through the portal into the tall box.

"Good morning, Mr. Welles! What setting would you like today?" The gratingly cheerful robotic voice made him wince as it blurted out its daily greeting.

"Gentle, please," he mumbled, adding to himself, "I'd like to keep my skin."

"Very good, sir!"

A moment later, he was blasted with two stinging jets of hot soapy water. As they worked their way over his body, the voice piped up again.

"Arms up, please!"

The young man obliged without comment, knowing that saying anything would have earned him a mouthful of soapy water. He could only be grateful that his Pip-Boy, a metal sleeve with an integrated computer, was waterproofed.

The shower box finished soaping him down, so the spindly metal arms folded out of the walls. Brushes on the arms scrubbed him down, making sure he was the epitome of clean. Once they finished, he was rinsed off with blasts of cold water and dried off with blasts of hot air. The whole ordeal took no more than half a minute, but to him it felt like half an hour.

He stepped out of the box, followed by a cheery "Have a nice day!" The door hissed shut, and he rummaged around in his drawer for a fresh pair of boxers. Hopping over to the mirror as he pulled them on, he took stock of what he was looking at. A young man, five feet ten inches, semi-muscular build (courtesy of the Workout Room), messy black hair, which seemed to stay messy no matter how much he combed it, and fine black stubble on his chin and neck.

_And I still don't feel much older than I did yesterday._

He tried to comb his hair anyway, and shaved off the stubble. No sense in walking out looking like a barbarian, even though Grognak was pretty cool. After putting on a fresh pair of socks and a clean tank top, the young man walked over to the suit extruder, a long silver box set into the wall, and pressed the button. A wide slit opened up along the bottom, and the machine began synthesizing a brand new Vault 47 jumpsuit. The leathery suit slid out of the machine as it usually did, until the machine made a metallic grinding noise, and the production came to a halt.

Nothing happened for several seconds, and the young man became frustrated. The machine then flashed a message on its viewscreen.

"Error: synthesizer jammed. Please contact your nearest Vault-Tec technician."

He let out an enraged howl. "I am the nearest technician, you stupid son of a… GAH!" He stomped over to his bed and pulled his toolbox out from under it. A couple of undone screws and blue streak later, the cover came off and the inner mechanisms were laid bare. The young man yanked at the wires until he could get a look at the synthesizer, which looked incredibly like the insider of a printer. Stuck in between the layering nozzle and the cloth loom, in the gears of the track, was a small chunk of wiring torn from one of the nearby clusters. He swore under his breath. Wiring was getting harder and harder to come by these days. He'd have to spend a week's worth of work credits to get the needed replacement, and those were credits he needed for food.

The young man let out a frustrated sigh. There was nothing he could do about it now, so he headed over to the dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. He pulled out a pair of cargo pants and an old white T-shirt, covered in stains from oil, grease, and other mechanical juices. He preferred to wear these over the Vault jumpsuits anyway. Leather, even the synthesized kind, wasn't very breathable. He took the toolbelt from its place on his bedside table and belted it on as he entered the living quarters.

Looking around, his mother was nowhere in sight, but that was to be expected. More and more often, she was in the science lab, trying to come up with solutions to impossible problems. There was a note on the table, so he read it, even though he knew what it would say.

_Happy Birthday, Markie!_

_Sorry I can't be here this morning, we're so close to a breakthrough. Renewable air filters won't be something for __those jerks on the Community Board to scoff at much longer. I got you some Sugar Bombs for breakfast. There's only a half of a box, but it should be enough. Love you, sweetie! See you tonight in the dining hall._

_Mom_

Mark smiled. He knew he had the best mom in the Vault, but he hadn't expected her to sacrifice such a hefty amount of work credits just so he could have a nice breakfast on his birthday. Sugar Bombs were a rarity in the Vault these days, so he knew that she had to pay quite a lot to get even half a box.

Such was life in Vault 47. Even though its residents didn't know it, their Vault had lasted much longer than the Enclave scientists could have possibly predicted. Vault 47 was one of the Vault-Tec vaults selected by the US government's Enclave scientists in 2054 to be a social experiment. When it was completed in 2075, a selection of 375 convicts and ex-cons were designated citizens of Vault 47, along with 125 other non-criminal citizens. The convicts and citizens were ushered into the Vault on October 23, 2077, as the first bombs were launched. For the first few weeks after the nuclear firestorm tensions were high. But then the Overseer, with some political maneuvering, reminded the new Vault dwellers of their predicament, and explained to them the situation. The directives he received said that this was to be their new home, as the outside was now certainly toxic with radiation. This was to be one of the last bastions of human civilization, for the outside world was no longer inhabitable. They would live their lives underground, able to survive indefinitely with the latest technology. Perhaps in a thousand years the ground would be not as soaked with radiation and they would be able to tunnel some connections to the other Vaults. But as it was, they would have to survive until that day came. The Vault was built to hold 2000 people or 4000 if hot-bunking was brought into effect.

Immediately, the non-convicts scrabbled to take the higher up positions, trying to keep their lives out of the hands of criminals, while the convicts received the more dangerous or menial tasks. The convicts laughed at first and took their work assignments with a grain of salt. They would have to live with these people for hundreds of years, even if they didn't like it.

For the first ten years, life went on peacefully enough. The few incidents involved were mainly because of kleptomaniacs who couldn't keep their hands to themselves. But then, in 2088, a convict applied for an open position in the Vault's Medical Facility. He was immediately turned down due to "conflicts of interest."

This simple act of paranoia sparked a fire of indignation and anger in the convicts, and protests and demonstrations escalated until violence and an all-out war broke out in 2091. The conflict lasted many years, with many casualties on both sides. Finally the war ended in 2099 when the daughter of the Overseer and the convict faction leader's son fell in love. They were able to bring fighting to a stop on both sides, and began acting as intermediaries. The two factions were able to work out most of their differences, and came to a peaceable agreement by the turn of the century.

Now, in 2290, the descendant of the two who stopped a civil war sits eating a sweetened breakfast cereal in his home in the Den of Rogues, unaware of the events that will change his life forever.


	2. No Place For Good Men

Mark couldn't set one foot out the door of his apartment without running into trouble. A pair of kids dashed right by him, shouting gleefully as they outran the fat man lumbering behind them.

"Come back here you little shits!"

They had obviously stolen something from him, because they trailed it behind them. It was a leather belt, made obvious by the man attempts to hike up his pants. Mark sighed. Such was life in a den of thieves. He sprinted off after the kids, wanting to spare them the punishment that they'd receive if the fat man caught up to them. He caught up to them easily and snatched the belt away. The kids gasped and turned around, fearful that they'd been caught, but relaxed visibly when they saw Mark grinning mischievously at them.

"Alright, you two, that's enough. You know better than to antagonize Mr. Lorris. Now go on! Go play somewhere else."

The kids dashed off, eager to avoid punishment, as Mr. Lorris jogged to a heaving stop. He stood gasping for a few seconds, and Mark held out the belt. Mr. Lorris glared at Mark, obviously wanting to have given the children a beating for their insolence, but he merely muttered a thank you and took his belt. With a shrug of his shoulders, Mark set off for the Maintenance Wing. Even though the Pip-Boy on his arm would have told him the directions he needed to go, he wandered off to the lower sections of the Vault, already knowing the route by heart.

He passed most of the residence sectors on his way, observing life happen all the while. Most of it was watching people make their way to their various jobs, but there were little bits of personality mixed in. The way one couple kissed passionately before separating for the day, a mother playfully swatting her child on the bottom as he made his way to school, or a pair of doctors arguing over the best way to treat one of their patients as a young pickpocket relieved one of a candy bar sitting in his lab coat pocket.

There were some darker aspects too. Shady looking men huddled in the dark corners of lesser used hallways. Mafia goons stood outside a storage closet where some "business transaction" or another was taking place. Mark sighed to himself. The Vault had been like this for as long as he could remember, but he never could understand why anyone would want to live this way. Sure there may be some semblance of order, but the Vault Security Force was about as useful in keeping the peace as a teacher in a room full of children. For the most part, the gangs ran the Vault, and the only law was the one that they laid down. Mark was lucky to live in the section ruled by the Nighthawks, a gang that had the most principles out of the rest. They weren't angels, but they at least made conditions in Living Sector 4 tolerable. Nighthawk members were even know to work with the VSF now and then, at least whenever one of the other gangs invaded their territory.

Others weren't so lucky, least of all the people who lived under the rule of the Instigators. Instigators were ruthless and cruel, demanding tithes from the people who lived beneath them. No one who lived in Sector 14 could leave their homes, because there was nowhere to go to that the Instigators wouldn't track the deserters down and beat them senseless. No one, not even the Nighthawks, had the power to stand up to them.

Mark wished with all his being that there was something that he could do, but alone he had no power over the Instigators. He never even knew a time without them. The Instigators had been around for the past few decades, and had resisted all attempts to subdue them. It was frightening, but nothing could be done about it. New members joined them every day. The only option was to hold ground and keep them at bay.

_Such a wonderful world we live in_, Mark remarked sarcastically to himself as he rapidly descended the last flight of stairs to the level the Maintenance Wing called home. The double doors to the lobby bustled with workers. The halls to the left and right of the lobby were lined with pairs of ladders and fire poles that ran through the floors to each Sector. The doors on the far wall opened onto the Workshop, a massive room where most of the work was done. Scrap metal from broken down robots and other things was melted down and recycled, to be used in molds for replacement parts. Robots that were still active but malfunctioning also came here to be repaired, and a corner of the Workshop was reserved for that work. The Workshop was probably the loudest place in the entire vault, so Mark counted himself lucky that his expertise with scientific equipment usually landed him more important jobs.

_One of the perks of having a scientist as a mother, I suppose._ He walked over and leaned on the reception counter, smiling at the girl behind it.

"Hey, Jess, whatcha got for me today?" The girl checked her computer monitor without so much as glancing up at Mark.

"Mark Welles. The Waterworks in Sector 10 seems to be having some trouble, so you've been assigned to help there. Pick up Packet 10-095C on your way to the pole."

"You got it. Stay beautiful." He winked playfully as he turned to walk away. Jess merely sighed in annoyance as she continued to answer complaint forms.

Sector 10 was just a short drop from their quarters in Sector 8, so Mark didn't feel the need to attach the Packet to his belt. Packets were usually different sized burlap sacks with iron rings set into the opening, filled with the supplies needed to finish a job. Sometimes, if the supplies were delicate, they were put in a foam-lined white plastic box. This time it was both a burlap sack with the heavy duty supplies and a box with electrical components. Mark held the packet draped over one shoulder and swung himself out into the open air beneath the pole.

**Elsewhere...**

Alexander Dole was not a happy man. For ages he had strived to unify the Vault dwellers under his rule, but the scum seemed not to realize just what it was he was offering. The Instigators would keep order in the Vault much more effectively than that pathetic Vault Security Force. And no one would have to go hungry, because the descendants of the Noncons – and all their sympathizers – would be put down like the dogs they were. He had the power and the will to make everything better for those of his noble lineage, the ones who had had the courage to take their own fates into their hands and were unjustly prosecuted for it. They were called convicts by the jaded and foolish few who had been put in here with them, but they were much more. They were soldiers, leaders, real man's men. The convicts were meant to be the ruling class, while the pathetic ones, who hadn't even known what it was like to take a man's life, should have been the peasants. For too long had they lorded their status over the Instigators. But not for much longer. The revolution was at hand, and all would either bow before him, or die at his hand.

"Boss! Louie jus' got back! He say da deal wit' da Greasers fell 'tru!"

Alexander sighed. Such impudence. Well, these "Greasers" would either see things his way or be crushed under his heel.

"Assemble the men, Luke. If I cannot make them see reason, then we shall strike tonight."

The man smoothed out his slick ebony hair and straightened his goatee. The lower gangs would submit to his will, there was no doubt about it. _All it takes is a show of power, and they flock to you like moths to a flame. And those that don't will be burned._


	3. Rewards for the Workers

"The problem's with the purifier monitor. It keeps telling us there's nothing in the pipes. Not even water. And we know THAT'S not right."

Mark could see where the pipe had been opened and had spilled all over the floor. So it obviously wasn't the piping that was the problem. It had to be something to do with the monitors. Immediately after asking about that, the Foreman scoffed.

"And you know, it's the damnedest thing. We checked the program, and it's still working like a charm. The connections seem to be fine too; we just can't seem to find the source of the problem." Foreman Roy took off his helmet and scratched his head in puzzlement.

"Well, let's take a look then, shall we?"

Mark jogged over to the offending installation and began poking around. The site was a mess. Tools lay scattered about, and technicians were busy pulling on a valve wheel, trying to shut off the water flow to that piping. They obviously hadn't been here for more than a half an hour. The monitor screen had been pulled from its stand and the plug-ins lay taped off on the metal shelf. The wires themselves ran to a power grid and a sensor module connected to the piping.

"I doubt you'll find anything. We're just going to have to replace the whole system."

Mark triple checked the wires. The Foreman was right. There were no breaks or kinks in the lines, so nowhere the data would be cut off. But there was something that the Foreman had overlooked. One of the data lines that fed into the sensor module was blackened right under the connection. He undid the screws, and, sure enough, the inside of the sensor module was black from smoke. It had shorted out.

_But that shouldn't happen, unless…_

He checked the module number.

_Of course. Idiots…_

"Here's your problem." Mark handed the shorted out sensor module to Roy. "Someone installed a 1040HO Sensor here. Easy mistake, seeing as how it and the 1041WP look similar. But there's one big difference. One of them has waterproofing seals. Guess which one doesn't."

"The 1040HO."

"Bingo, which means…" Mark looked up just as a drop of water fell from one of the pipes. "We've also got a leaky pipe."

He pulled a sealant gun from his toolbelt as he scrambled up the piping nearby. Clinging to the vertical pipe with his left arm and legs, he grabbed the offending pipe with his right hand, still holding the sealant. He shook the pipe and scanned the surface for irregularities. As he did, a bead of moisture welled up along a hairline crack in the top of the piping, and fell to where the sensor module had been a minute before. Holding on to the leaky pipe to support his weight, he shifted his left hand onto the same pipe so he could steady himself as he pulled the trigger. The sealant came of the nozzle in a tiny glob, but that was all he needed. He spread it along the crack, and pulled a strip of duct tape off of the dispenser on his toolbelt. Once the pipe was sealed tight, he shimmied back down and finished the job of installing the proper sensor module before walking back over to Foreman Roy. He just gave Mark an amazed look.

"Well… shit, kid, I should have thought of that. Only question I have is why you aren't a Foreman yet?"

"Oh, I'm sure Hendricks has his reasons."

Mark knew those reasons all too well. Hendricks was the Head Foreman of the Maintenance Wing. He told everyone that Mark wouldn't get anywhere if he continued his insubordination, which was the equivalent of calling him a smart-ass, but there was another side to it. Hendricks knew that if Mark ever got to be a Foreman, Mark would have his job in a heartbeat. Not because he was ambitious, but because he was smart, and Hendricks knew it. Hendricks himself was fairly intelligent, but he knew he couldn't hold a candle to Mark. If he wanted to keep Mark from advancing, he knew his only option was to get Mark fired, for one reason or another.

"Well, I'd better get back; we might have another crisis on our hands."

Roy just laughed and said, "Sure, sure… And hey, nice job saving us some supplies. I'll make sure to add that to my report."

Mark smiled in thanks. He knew that that wouldn't amount to much. Hendricks always found a reason to brush aside any of Mark's commendations. As he climbed up the ladder to the lobby, he tried not to reflect on how unfair Hendricks was in his treatment. But he knew things could always be worse.

_Hell, I could be out there in the Wastes._

He shivered at the thought. Nothing could survive the conditions outside. So he didn't get the promotion he deserved. So what? He was young, alive, and lived in the Nighthawk protected Sector 4. Right now, he was living the dream.

Just then, Jess's voice broadcasted itself from his Pip-Boy.

"Mark Welles, you are needed in the Sector 5 Science Wing. No Packets required."

Mark grinned. He knew who put in that request. Who knew? Maybe she even had a legitimate reason.

He raced up the ladder to the Science Wing, pushing past a few people on the way. When he emerged through the door, he was greeted by the sight of his frustrated mother, typing furiously into a computer console, surrounded by several other lab technicians. Puzzled, he walked over.

"Hey Mom, what's up?"

She turned around and the frustration vanished from her face, replaced with a smile. "Hey, Markie, Happy Birthday," she said as she reached up to give him a hug. Grace Welles was a shorter woman, with mousey brown hair pulled back in a ponytail and black-rimmed glasses. She was prettier than a lot of women, but still wasn't married, a fact Mark could never fully understand. He knew his father, and he was kind to both of them, but he never seemed to be able to answer why he wasn't with Grace.

As he hugged her, he whispered, "Mom, can we please just call me Mark in public. I'm not five anymore."

She let go, and said, "Oh all right. Can't a mother have any fun these days?"

Mark just rolled his eyes. "Alright now, what did you need me for?"

"Oh! Right. Well, it's this damn computer. I can't seem to get it to recognize my password. You're good with computers, can you find out what's wrong?"

"Sure, what's the password?"

"Oh, well, um-… Markie271."

He paused. "Really, Mom?" Then sighed and turned back to the computer screen. He remembered a trick that one of the Nighthawk members had taught him. There was a backdoor program built in to most computers, but a code was required to gain access. The program wasn't very accurate, so some logic and guesswork was required, but for Mark that wasn't a problem. He typed in the sequence, and was greeted with a block of code with numbers symbols and letters. In several instances the letter spelled out a word, and so he chose that as the basis for the password search. Then, it was a matter of finding words with the same amount of letters in the same places. If you knew the person, it was even easier to guess, but unfortunately he didn't know who reset the password. In a matter of minutes, he had the password figured out.

"Alright, you're in. It looks like the password was reset, username… ugh, ToddtheGod." He printed out the screenshot and handed it to his mother.

A look of shock crossed his mother's face, but she then went livid with fury. "Todd Ericson, you're in for a world of hurt..."

Mark raised an eyebrow. "Todd who?"

"Oh, Todd's an old rival of mine. We often compete for grant resources. But this has gone too far. A rivalry may be one thing, but sabotage? Well, let's just say he won't be working for the Scientific Wing much longer. Thank you, sweetie. I won't keep you."

"No problem, Mom. And try to pick a more difficult password next time, alright?"

"Will do, sweetie. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to go pay a visit to the Director." And she stormed off, lab coat and assistants trailing behind her. Mark chuckled, began heading back for the pole when another alert blared from his Pip-Boy.

"Mark Welles, please report to my office."

Mark winced. He instantly recognized the Maintenance Manager's voice. Whatever was afoot, it couldn't be good news. He slid down the pole, and reluctantly began walking to the Manager's office. Aware of how many stares followed him, he did his best not to take notice. All Maintenance announcements were made across the same channel, so everyone knew he was called, but not why.

Marjorie Logan was the Maintenance Manager of the entire Vault, so she oversaw all the Maintenance employees. She was a very strict woman, but she was fair. There would be no exceptions from punishment for tardy or slacking workers, but those that worked hard were compensated, or even rewarded for doing a good job. However, the tone in her voice had not implied that she would be giving him a raise.

Mark paused to take a deep breath before stepping through the door. Mrs. Logan sat behind her desk looking through a sheaf of papers. On the left side of the desk stood Hendricks, sneering victoriously at Mark. At that moment, Hendricks chose to speak.

"You see, ma'am? It's just as I told you. Young Mark here blatantly disregarded the orders of his superiors, and proceeded to fix the problem in the Waterworks at his own whim. This is insubordination of the highest degree!"

The Maintenance manager set the papers down with a sigh, tightened her bun of grey hair, and peered at Mark through her half-moon spectacles. "Well, Mr. Welles, what have you to say for yourself?"

"Beg your pardon, ma'am, but I saw the problem, and thought that it could be solved using fewer resources than had been ordered. I was only trying to conserve our assets."

Logan folded her hands with what Mark could only have described as a sense of finality. He winced as she began her verdict.

"Very well. It seems, Mr. Welles, that you give me no choice…" It seemed as though Hendricks was about to erupt from his giddiness, "But to give you a promotion."

A stunned silence followed. No one spoke for several seconds. Finally, Hendricks found a word. "What?"

"Well, it only seems proper that I reward Mr. Welles for his continued outstanding performance. Henceforth, Mr. Welles, you will be recognized as a Foreman of the Maintenance Wing. I've already sent the order to your jumpsuit extruder to add your title to all future jumpsuits."

"Th... Thank you, Mrs. Logan."

Hendricks interrupted hastily, "But Mrs. Logan, my reports…"

"Yes, yes. I've read your reports," Mrs. Logan interrupted, "and I must say, you treatment of this poor boy has been downright abhorrent. If I were any more frustrated, I might've given him your position. But let it not be said I am unforgiving. Just remember, Mr. Hendricks, you tread very thin ice from this point onward. Now go, I've other things to attend to."

Hendricks fumed, but dared not speak out against her. "Yes, ma'am." He resigned himself to a furious look at Mark, and stormed out of the office. Mark, meanwhile, could not wipe the smile off his face.

"Go on, Mr. Welles. I daresay you should get acquainted with your new title," she said with a small smile.

"Yes, ma'am. Thank you, ma'am."

And he walked proudly out of the office.

Just as he left, the Pip-Boy spoke his name for a third time. "Mr. Welles, you're requested in the VSF Equipment Room."

Mark had a hunch who this third caller would be too, and so he set out for the ladder to Sector 1.

**Elsewhere…**

Alexander Dole sat across from the head of the Greasers in a small, unused educational room, impatiently awaiting an answer.

"So what IS the problem, Mr. Mackie?"

Dorian "the Doberman" Mackie was a tough looking man. It wasn't just his physique, although 250 pounds of muscle did wonders in that respect. It was also his eyes, which burned with an inner power and rage. Even the two goons at his sides were very menacing. But when he looked at Alexander Dole, there was something about the man that sent shivers down his spine. A certain coldness that could only be described as snake-like, and the gaze from his steel grey eyes were as sharp and as piercing as daggers. If looks could kill, many men would already be dead at Alexander Dole's feet. It was this look that sent cold sweat running down Dorian's back.

"Well, Mr. Dole, uh… We, uh… We thought we should be gettin' a little, uh… Compensation… Fer this here code."

Dole chuckled softly, although no one saw what was so funny.

"You see, this was supposed to be a very simple transaction. You give me the code, and I give you a position of in the power in the new Vault order..." He paused. as if contemplating something. "Do you know what happens, Mr. Mackie, to people who try to fuck me? Jerry, if you please."

Dole's bodyguard pulled the silenced 10mm pistol out of his jacket and shot one of the goons between the eyes. Immediately, the other two Greasers pulled out their weapons, but were disarmed by two more silent gunshots. Mr. Dole smiled as he retrieved the holodisk that Dorian had been waving around earlier, and walked out after reminding the dazed mobster of one thing.

"Remember, Mr. Mackie, I am not a man to be fucked with."


	4. A Good Night for Conquest

The ladder to the First Sector was a long one. Mark took his time, hoping to do some thinking while he had the chance. There was something on his mind that had been nagging at him for some time.

_You know, I wonder if the outside really is uninhabitable. All the scientific texts on nuclear radiation and fallout have said that the half-life of most nuclear weapons would be anywhere from five to twenty years. It's been over two hundred years since the bombs fell. Even if there had been a massive amount of radiation, surely it's died down enough now to be at least partially habitable. I'll have to ask Mom about it later._

Mark reached the top of the ladder and pulled himself out of the tube. He stood looking at the entrance to the Vault Security Force headquarters. It was in a brightly lit corridor, down a short side passage, but ended in a doorway blocked by a three inch thick, triple-locked steel security door. No matter how many times he came here, he always felt a sense of foreboding when he looked at that portal. He walked slowly up to the voice analyzer at the side of the door, and pressed the button.

"Um, Mark Welles, reporting for, uh…"

"Please look into the scanner," the metal box replied, followed immediately by the hissing of a panel sliding up into the wall on his right. The small viewport was exactly at his eye level and glowed with a faint blue light. Mark hesitantly put his eyes to the viewport and was rewarded with a bright flash of light. Blinded for a moment, he blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision so he could understand what the series of clicks he heard to his right were.

"Identity confirmed, please enter."

The door slid open almost noiselessly, and Mark stepped through. The lobby of the VSF was incredibly plain, as usual, with only a few posters, chairs and hallways to break up the monotony of the gray walls. A slim, older woman sat behind the half-circle front desk, typing into her computer.

"Mark Welles, you will find Officer Hemley in the Equipment Room, down the hall to your right," she recited blandly, still filling out reports.

"Um, thanks." He set off down the hallway at a steady pace. He wasn't sure what to expect, but he knew the man who had called. The door opened to find Jack Hemley hunched over the keyhole to one of the many lockers that lined the walls, muttering to himself. The only other sound in the room was that of the rows of Verti-Tubes along the far wall. Big enough to hold a grown man, Verti-Tubes allowed the VSF officers to move from Sector to Sector almost instantaneously, using state of the art anti-grav technology. The Tubes only responded to the VSF security armor, so normal citizens would fall to their deaths if they tried to use them. Nowadays, these were about the only advantage the VSF had over the everyday scum that wandered the Vault.

Jack Hemley himself barely fit inside the Tubes. He was a portly man, with a head of short, bristly salt-and-pepper hair and a long moustache. But underneath the fat was solid muscle. His pot belly hid a powerful core, and he had a chest like an iron barrel. His arms and legs were well toned, and he could wrestle a perp to the ground in seconds flat. He would have been a very intimidating figure, if he hadn't had such a love of Grace Welles' homemade chocolate mousse. As it was, he looked very much like a shaved bear.

"Hey Dad," Mark said faintly, not trying very hard to get his father's attention. Even though Jack Hemley was kind to he and his mother, the man still made Mark feel nervous. Despite Mark's quiet greeting, Jack heard him and turned around, smiling when he saw that it was Mark.

"Ah, Mark. Good to see you got here so quickly. Here, I've been having trouble with my locker. Maybe you can help."

His father stepped aside, allowing him a look at the lock. Mark had to laugh. It seemed his father had snapped the key off in the lock. Now he knew that there was a reason his father had wanted to see him. Jack Hemley may have been strong, but he wouldn't have been so careless as to break a key in a lock. This must be about his lessons.

Jack had been teaching Mark some of the tricks of his trade in their spare time. He had been showing Mark how to use and maintain firearms, instructing him in some of the interrogation techniques and hand-to-hand combat they practiced in the force, and even showing him how to pick locks with nothing more than a couple bobby pins and a screw driver.

Mark took out a pair of pliers and pulled the scrap of metal out of the keyhole, and then reached into his pocket for the bobby pins he'd taken to carrying with him. He stuck them in and worked them around until he heard a couple of faint clicks, and turned the keyhole with the screwdriver. The locker opened without a hitch. Mark turned to grin at his father. Jack was already grinning back at him.

"Good job, kiddo. Seems I've taught you well."

"Well, I've been learning from the best." Jack smiled, and then seemed to remember something.

"Oh, I almost forgot. I got this gun," he reached up into the locker and pulled out a 9mm pistol, "from a perp I took down a while ago, but it seems that it's jammed. Can you figure out what's wrong?"

Mark smiled and took the gun. He ejected the clip. It was loaded, so he pulled back the slide to eject the cartridge in the barrel. However, he couldn't pull the slide back all the way, and no cartridge ejected. He set the magazine on the bench, locked the slide in the half-cocked position, and pushed the cartridge out with his thumb. After inspecting it, he came to a laughable conclusion.

"The idiot tried to load 10mm ammunition into a 9mm gun. Fool probably thought that there wasn't much difference between the two."

Jack laughed. "My thoughts exactly. Lucky he didn't get a chance to fire it, or he might've killed himself and not just me. Anyway, I figure you'd take better care of it than him, so keep it. Happy birthday."

Mark laughed happily. He'd never owned a gun before. "Really? Thanks dad! Why, think I'll need it?" He teased, unloading the ill-chosen ammunition from the magazine and handing it to his father. However, he didn't expect to get a serious answer.

"Well… I'm not sure, Mark. But I think you'd better keep it on you, just in case." Mark looked over concernedly, taking the holster and ammo box Jack handed him.

"Why? What's going on?" Jack sighed and looked off towards the door to the lobby.

"It's just… those Instigator bastards in Sector 14… well, no one's seen hide nor hair of them in the past few months, and it's got me worried. They're usually quite active year-round. I think they're up to somethin'. Whatever it is, it can't be for the good of the Vault." He was silent for a few seconds more, but turned back to Mark with a frighteningly serious look.

"Now don't breath a word of this to your mother, you hear? I don't want her gettin' all upset."

Mark quickly shook his head. "No… I mean, of course. I won't tell her."

"Good."

They stood there staring at each other for what seemed like ages. Mark was the first to break eye contact, moving his gaze down to his feet, embarrassed to bring up what he really wanted to talk about.

"Um… Dad? I know you don't like talking about this, but… why aren't you and Mom together? I mean, it's not like we don't get along."

Jack sighed. "Kiddo, it's long and complicated. Believe me, I'd love to be with your Mom, but… it's just…"

"Mark Welles, your assistance is needed in the Sector 6 Power Station."

It was Mark's turn to sigh. He was finally about to get a straight answer when they just had to call him. Jack let out a sigh of relief, trying to hide it by clearing his throat.

"Alright, well, I don't want to keep you. Sounds like your talents are needed." Mark laughed half-heartedly.

"Yeah, I guess. See you later, Dad."

"Oh, hey! I'll, uh… I'll see you at your party tonight."

Mark smiles. That gave him something to look forward to at least. "Alright, I'll see you tonight." With that, he turned and left the way he came. Jack watched the doorway for a few minutes, and then walked back to the Tubes, eager to resume his duties.

**Elsewhere…**

The room was dark. The only light filtered in from the centimeter wide gap beneath the doorway. All was silent but for the occasional cough or rustle of clothing. Alexander Dole checked his silenced R91 Infiltrator assault rifle one last time before he spoke to his followers. He could barely contain his excited anticipation. Tonight was the night he rid the Vault of its filth once and for all. He dialed into the secure channel he had prepared for communication with his gang.

"All right men, this is it. The culmination of thirty years of planning and preparation is about to reach its climax. You all know your assignments. Carry them out to the letter, and you shall live as kings. Kill all who resist. Enslave the rest." He could hear the footsteps of a VSF patrol in the hallway outside, clomping around in their security armor.

"We strike…" The footsteps passed his doorway. "Now."

He stepped smoothly out of the room, took aim, and fired two shots. Each found their mark in the back of an officer's unprotected neck. His lackeys dashed forward and slit the throats of the forward two officers, pulling them back into the room with them. Alexander and his bodyguard dragged the remaining two back before they bled all over the floor, and began equipping themselves with the VSF armor. Alexander then took out his knife, and began severing the head one of the officers. The flesh parted with a squelching noise that sent pleasant shivers down his spine. Disdainfully, he tossed the head into the waiting security crate. His henchman sealed the crate, and took places on either side of it while Jerry scouted out ahead.

They marched briskly down the hallways to the room that housed the Verti-Tubes. All around him were signs that his plan was working smoothly and efficiently. Men silently dispatched VSF officers on every level of the Vault, making way for other teams to set looping modules on security cameras, roll chlorine gas canisters into rooms marked for immediate termination, and generally make sure no one spread the alarm before it was time.

When they reached their destination, Alexander walked up to the voice analyzer and pressed the button.

"VSF protocol 21-6 Theta."

A second passed by, and the machine responded. "Enter optical identification."

Alexander allowed himself a small smile as the eye scanner slid out of the wall. _Good, Mr. Wallace's information was accurate. It seems I won't have to kill him... yet._

He took the head out of the crate and pressed the eyes up against the scanner. A moment later, the analyzer spoke. "Optics confirmed. Waiting for new user voice pattern."

"Alexander Dole."

"Confirmed: Alexander Dole." He heard his words played back to him. It sounded like the voice of an angel, come to realize his every desire. "Waiting for new user optical pattern."

Alexander tossed the head back into the crate, and pressed his own eyes up to the viewport. A moment and a flash later, the analyzer greeted him with open arms and open doors. He strode purposefully into the room and wasted no time looking around before entering in his destination on the console in front of the gaping maw of the Verti-Tube. Sector 1 flashed across the screen, followed by the word 'safe' in friendly green letters. He stepped unhesitatingly out into open air, and felt a slight thrill as he began falling up. His rapid ascent slowed only when he arrived on the floor housing the VSF headquarters and he stepped out onto solid ground. The thrill had not yet left his stomach. He was so close to realizing his goals.

Jerry stepped calmly out of the Tube behind him, followed moments later by the other two goons. The group jogged over to the entrance and Alexander was able to open the doors without difficulty. The receptionist was still at her desk, and when she looked up to see who had come in unannounced, the last thing she ever saw was Jerry's silenced N99 leveled at her head.

Alexander led the group jogging quickly down on of the corridors to stop by a door labeled 'Command Center'. A quick look to make sure they were all in position and he gave the order. The Instigators burst into the command center, guns blazing. The officers inside had barely any time to react before they were shot down. A few got some shots off before they were dispatched by the hit squad's fire. None of Alexander's men were hit.

Alexander hurried over to the main terminal and inserted the holodisk he had stashed behind his Kevlar jacket. His fingers danced a merry dance over the keys, and his program began uploading. All over the Vault, robots stopped whatever they were doing and received the transmitted information. Alexander Dole put his feet up on the desk.

"Tonight is a good night for conquest."


	5. Troublemakers

The Dining Hall was filled with cheer and the roar of a hundred conversations. Mark's smile split his face from ear to ear. His mother had really outdone herself this time. It was almost impossible to reserve the Dining Hall for any purpose, let alone a birthday celebration. She probably had to call in quite a few favors to acquire exclusive use for an entire night.

Mark sat with a group of his friends, admiring the hunting knife his best friend Jordan had managed to dig up and restore to working order. It was a beautifully curved six-inch blade, smaller than a bowie knife but with a similar shape. The handle was of a burnished white wood, whose name Mark couldn't recall, and held together with a polished brass pommel and guard. It was his favorite present by far. The amount of presents he had received had astounded him as well. A pile graced one table along the back wall.

But he enjoyed even more the company that those presents brought. There were his friends, of course, and quite a few of his coworkers. His mother had brought in her friends from the science wing, and all of her old family friends. Several families from Sector 4 had shown up for the food, and stayed for the festivities. Smaller children ran shrieking through the room, making their own fun in a crowd of stuffy old grown-ups. Some of the Nighthawk gang members and VSF officers had even joined the gathering, eager to make a good impression on each other and the people gathered there. Mark was glad to see he had so many friends.

His friends were joking about how he was going to join the Security Force, now that he had his own gun, when his father walked into the room. Mark noticed him standing awkwardly by the door and excused himself from the conversation, amid sarcastic comments about his abandonment. He walked over to Jack's side, happy that his father had kept his word.

"Hey Dad! Glad you could make it."

"Yeah, well, couldn't miss my son's birthday now could I?"

An idea began to take root in Mark's head. "Oh yeah! I just remembered. Mom wanted to talk to you. Come on, I'll take you to her."

Jack began to protest, but Mark had taken him by the hand and was dragging him through the crowd. He followed reluctantly, trying to smooth down his moustache at the same time. Talking to Grace always made him nervous, and his moustache bristled when he was upset. He saw Grace talking to one of her colleagues, and a familiar thrill went through him. When she looked over, he smiled and waved. She smiled back, and turned to excuse herself. A moment later, they were face to face, standing awkwardly in the middle of the crowd.

"Hi Jack."

"Um, hi Grace. Mark said that you, uh… wanted to talk to me."

"He did? I don't remember…" Looking around, Mark was nowhere to be found. She laughed.

"Looks like he pulled a fast one on us," Jack observed.

"Ha, it looks like you're right. Well, I guess we'd better go talk. Want to step outside for a moment?"

"S- Sure."

Mark watched them leave with immense satisfaction. It seemed his plan was working perfectly. Leaving them to themselves, he sauntered over to the dessert bar for another slice of cake, congratulating himself for his cunning. But when he got there, he noticed something was wrong with the Mr. Handy robot behind the counter. It seemed as though it had gone into sleep mode. The three foot wide metal orb of its body was hovering only a foot above the ground, its three multi-jointed claw arms lay lifeless on the floor, and the three small optical orbs positioned around it were motionless on their stalks. Even when he spoke to it, the robot showed no signs of recognition. Mark hopped behind the counter to take a look at it.

Outside, Jack and Grace were leaning against the railing, looking down from their perch on the Sector 2 upper walkway. Below them everything was quiet. Everyone was safe and comfortable in their homes. The occasional pair of gang members walked by, but no one was up to anything wicked. Jack watched them pass wearily. He wished he could make a better place for his son to live in, but it was just too much for one man to handle. But it was alright, Mark was a smart boy. He knew how to stay out of trouble.

"Our boy really is a clever one, isn't he?"

Jack looked over at Grace, not surprised at her question.

"Yeah, yeah I suppose he is."

Grace sighed. "Jack, why didn't things work out between us?"

Jack tensed up. He knew the reason, but he wasn't sure if Grace wanted to hear it. They hadn't spoken about this in years.

"Oh, I don't know. I guess I was just a big fool. When you said you were pregnant, I just sort of panicked. I knew I wasn't ready to bring a kid into this world, but I didn't want to make things hard on you by staying. I guess my leaving didn't really make things any easier either. I don't know. I'm just a big coward, really."

"Oh, Jack. I could've helped you. You weren't alone, you know."

"I know, I know…"

A silence passed between them. Jack began beating himself up, knowing that he had been the cause of all the hardship she had endured these past nineteen years. Even when she spoke again, he couldn't stop berating himself.

"So why didn't you ever come back?"

Jack sighed in distress. "Well, I guess I figured you were still mad at me."

"Jack, I was never mad at you, just… confused. I never understood why you left. You were always such a gentleman, even after Mark was born. I thought what we'd had was special."

"It was! IS… I mean, if you still, you know…"

"Oh Jack; of course I still love you. You big lug."

She leaned up and kissed him. He could feel the blood rushing to his face. She smiled coyly.

"Well, I guess we'd better go tell Mark."

Jack laughed, truly happy for the first time in years. "Yeah, he'd-"

A chilling scream cut him off. Immediately, he rushed off into the Dining Hall, trying to find the source of the disturbance, Grace following on his heels.

Mark was on his back trying desperately to hold off the metal claws that were going for his throat. The droid had surprised him as he was opening up its maintenance hatch, tripping him with a swipe of its metallic arm. He had landed flat on his back and smacked his head on the concrete floor, leaving him dazed. A moment later the Mr. Handy floated over to him, saying something that he couldn't fully comprehend.

"Do not be alarmed. I am merely helping you to die. It will all be over soon. Master Dole commands it."

It had then lunged at him with two of its arms, intending to choke him or slash his throat. Mark had reacted too quickly to find out, and caught the arms as they shot towards him, but it was a losing battle. The pistons in the robot's arms were too strong, even if they were very thin. The gripping metal hooks were inching closer and closer to his throat. He could hear screaming, but he couldn't react. It had wrapped its claws around his throat and was beginning to squeeze, when he heard gunshots. With each thundering blast, a hole appeared in the robot's hull and it inched backward. After what seemed like a millennium, its circuitry couldn't take the barrage any longer and it fell lifeless to the floor, oil and coolant fluid leaking out onto the linoleum.

Mark gasped for air, breathless after the battle. He was aware of his father and mother running over and kneeling down next to him in concern, .44 Magnum revolver still in hand.

"Mark! Mark, are you alright?"

He spoke in between coughing and gasping for air. "Yeah… Yeah, I'm… Fine. Just a… a little winded. Heh."

Jack helped him up. "What the hell happened?"

"I don't know," Jason leaned against the counter, massaging his throat. "It wasn't moving, and when I tried to open it up to see what was wrong, it just went berserk. Said something about…"

At that moment, the Vault loudspeakers crackled to life.

"Attention, citizens of Vault 47. This is Alexander Dole, your new Overlord speaking. I have taken control of the Vault's robotic security system, and have begun cleansing the filth out of this Vault." At that moment, the sounds of automatic fire filtered up to the Dining Hall, and they could see people dying all around them. Men in black suits burst in through doors and began shooting and dragging people out of their homes. Some were killed brutally, others were forced to watch and then brought to a group of people in the Sector Center pavilion. Mark watched in horror while the loudspeakers continued to relay Alexander Dole's message.

"Resist my men, and you will be shot. Comply, and you may yet survive. A new Vault order is upon you, and it will… be… GLORIOUS!" A shout rose from Instigators everywhere, filling the Vault with a carnivorous howl.

By now, everyone in the Dining Hall was panicking. All the VSF and Nighthawk agents were trying to keep order, but none of them were succeeding. Mark turned to his father and shouted.

"Dad! We've got to do something!"

Jack nodded, drew his revolver, and shot into the ceiling. Instantly, everyone's attention was on him.

"People, calm down. We've only one of two options right now. Stay and be enslaved or killed, or move and try to find a place to bunker down. There's no way we can defend ourselves in this room. So we've got to keep our heads and stay focused. The front entrance is too risky, so we'll have to use to the back entrance. All VSF officers and you Nighthawks here should cover the civilians. I want to get everyone through this safely. Now follow me, and keep your heads down!"

He turned to Mark. "Load your gun, son. You'll need it before the night is through." Mark nodded gravely and pulled the loaded clip out of his pocket, slamming it home and pulling the slide back to load the first round as he followed his father through the crowd. Jack made sure his own gun was fully loaded, and cautiously opened the door to the hallway. He pulled back quickly when he saw a detachment of Instigators off to the right. Mark watched him worriedly. He was never so tense in his entire life. His father pointed to three of the VSF officers and made hand signals towards where the Instigators were standing. Pausing for a moment to prepare himself, he quietly opened the door and ran quickly in the opposite direction while the guards weren't looking. The group followed, and the officers took protective positions in front of the group, bringing tables out for cover. Hearing movement, the Instigators spun around, weapons drawn. The officers opened fire, trying to hold them off long enough for the group to escape. At the head of the group, Mark, his father and a squad of VSF and Nighthawk gunmen cleared the way of stray gang members. Just as they passed an ascending staircase, another squad of Instigators ran in from a side passage.

"Up the stairs!" He took a couple shots before turning back himself, leaving the Nighthawk members to cover them. Mark lined up a shot, and fired, feeling the slight kick all the way up his arms. The bullet pierced the shoulder of one of the Instigators and he flinched away from the source of pain. The Nighthawks took the opportunity to put a few more holes in him, and he dropped where he stood. Mark froze up in shock, realizing that he had just helped kill a man. He snapped out of it only when his mother caught up to him and shouted.

"Mark, we have to go!"

He started, turned without looking back and followed her up the staircase. Now was not the time to wimp out.

They ran for what seemed like hours ducking down side corridors and up staircases every time a squad of Instigators crossed their path. People dropped like stones left and right, and their families and friends had to be dragged away, sobbing and limp, from the lifeless corpses. It was a nightmare. Every corridor held the possibility of death, and only the bodies of a few brave individuals stood between them and a barrage of metal. Eventually, their path led them to a wide room with several computer banks, monitors and a single control panel. Along the far wall, in a sunken part of the floor, rested a massive steel doorway, four feet thick and shaped like a giant gear. On the ceiling in front of the door, positioned perpendicular to the iron slab, was a massive drill bit. It seemed it would swing down and drill into a large hole in the door, meant to move it away from its setting and roll it along the gear-tooth tracks before it.

The crowd began to gather in the center of the room. They milled about, whispering in fright. Only after everyone had entered the room and they were sure that no one else was coming did the remaining guards shut the door and begin erecting a blockade.

Mark sat in silence, the shock of having shot someone, a living person, finally settling its weight on his shoulders. He looked down at the offending weapon, sneered in disgust, and thrust it back in his holster. Only common sense kept him from throwing it across the room. His mind raced with all the thoughts going through it, and he buried his face in his palms, trying desperately to block them out. One word continued to resurface, no matter how many times he pushed it back down.

_Murderer._

Seeing the turmoil Mark was in, his mother put an arm around his shoulders, trying to be reassuring. No one seemed much reassured at that moment. Then a voice in the crowd shouted out.

"What now? We're trapped in here!"

The cry stirred up the rest of the gathering, inciting panic and anger at their misfortune. Jack knew that if he didn't get the situation contained soon, the group would likely lose control. Injuries would likely ensue, and those weren't something he was equipped to deal with right now.

"People, please! We're safe for the moment! Right now we need to calm down and take stock of the situation."

One man stepped forward, still not persuaded.

"And what then? Where will we get food and water? And what happens if we get sick? Where are we supposed to piss?"

The crowd roared in outrage, unconvinced that their problems could be solved. They were infuriated at their predicament, and Jack knew that soon, the mob mentality would call for blood.

"People, people, there're store rooms on this floor! All we have to do is-"

"We can't go back!"

"They'll kill us!"

"We're gonna starve!"

The situation was deteriorating rapidly. Already, people in the crowd were fighting amongst themselves, almost on the verge of blows. Unless drastic action was taken, violence would break out. Jack's gun was empty, and he knew that to reload it at that moment would be to invite disaster.

Mark watched events unfold with mounting anxiety. He too realized exactly how dire the situation had become. Pushing aside his guilt for the moment, he took the only course he could think of. He stood up, climbed up onto the desk, and shouted.

"What about outside?"

A few people turned towards him, unable to comprehend what he was suggesting. Mark repeated the shout, and the rest of the group turned to face him. Their interest captured, Mark took a deep breath and began to explain his idea.

"Why not open the door to the Vault and go outside?"

"Are you fucking kidding? That's suicide!"

"Is it? It's been over two hundred years since the bombs fell. Residual fallout should have reached safe levels a hundred years ago."

"But what about mutants? Anything living after being exposed to that much radiation could have mutated into something far more dangerous than anything we've ever known." This was, of course, put forth by one of Grace's colleagues. Mark couldn't deny the logic, but he still had an answer.

"I never said it wouldn't be dangerous. All I'm suggesting is that we send out a search party to see if we can find a better place to live. Or at the very least, some food."

"But who will go outside? I'm sure most of us would agree that they'd rather stay here." A chorus of agreements rose from the crowd. Mark summoned the courage, and spoke his conviction.

"I'll go! And I'll take whoever's willing to go with me!"

"MARK!" His mom cried in horror, knowing that Mark would hold to his promise. Mark ignored her for the moment and continued.

"I will leave tomorrow morning. To anyone who wants to join me, I'll be leaving at 9 am sharp. You have tonight to think about it." With that, he stepped down from the desk and began to make what preparations he could for the days ahead of him. He took an empty toolbox from a gorilla shelf and began to set about solving the water problem, all the while his mother followed him, pleading with him in desperate whispers.

"Mark, please think about what you're doing. You could die out there."

"I know Mom. But think about what will happen if I don't go." Mark found a monkey wrench and began searching the piping.

"But it's so dangerous. Think of the radiation."

"Mom, you know as well as I that the radiation will have died down long ago." He found the perfect section of piping, clearly labeled, and connected to another section at about shoulder height. The top section featured a cut-off valve, so Mark pulled it down to stop the flow, and began to disconnect the bottom pipe.

"And how will you get back? You could easily get lost out there."

"I've been doing some tinkering with my Pip-Boy, and I found a mapping program already installed. It has local and world map functions, so I'll always have a way home."

With a spray of water, the pipe came loose. Unfortunately, Mark noticed that the pipe went all the way down into the floor without a break, so he would have to break it off. He began searching around for a fine-toothed saw.

His father walked over at that moment, a look of deep concern on his face.

"I sure hope you know what you've gotten yourself into, kiddo." Jack said.

"I do." Mark replied simply. Together, they looked through the piles of tools and found a hacksaw, and minutes later, the pipe lay on the floor. Mark discovered a couple of threaded pipe caps, drilled a hole in one with an electric drill they found, and screwed it onto the water pipe with the monkey wrench, creating a sort of faucet. His parents filled some of the plastic bottles that were lying around with water while Mark fashioned a sort of hollow walking stick out of the section of pipe he had removed. It was quite heavy, but very sturdy. He knew he wouldn't be able to carry it around for very long, but it was nice to have a melee weapon other than his knife.

After a lot of searching, they found a cardboard box full of packages of InstaMash that hadn't been sent to the food storerooms somehow, and they packed a few into the toolbox alongside the water bottles, bringing the rest to be rationed out to the survivors of the raid. Mark regretted the loss of his toolbelt, seeing as how it had had his ammunition in it. But he still had one clip in his gun, and it still had eight rounds left. _Useful for emergencies, but I'll have to be careful to conserve ammo._

The night passed quickly, sitting and talking with his friends and recently reunited family. He slept restlessly, constantly worrying about his self-appointed task. Morning came too soon for his liking, but he woke early, determined and as ready as he could be. When he walked up to the door, a crowd stood behind him, but no one stood beside him. He sighed, but he realized that he understood. He'd probably be there with them if he hadn't been the one to suggest the plan.

Jordan and Mark's other best friend, Anna, who had been dating Jordan for the last few months, walked up to him.

"We know it's not much, but we were able to scrape together some things for you. It's really the least we could do. Seeing as how… you know…" Anna looked around at the gathering, and most of them looked away, ashamed that they hadn't the courage to step outside the Vault. Mark took the small cloth hobo-sack that Anna handed him and smiled.

"Thanks. This means a lot. Stay safe 'til I get back."

Jordan stepped forward. "You to, bro."

They all hugged for a moment, and then he let go, not wanting to further the temptation to stay. He hugged his parents, and had to pull away from his mother, who desperately wanted to keep him in the Vault. But she knew he had made up his mind. And there was no stopping him once he'd set a path for himself.

Mark stepped back and looked at the massive steel door. He took a deep breath, trying to calm down his nerves. No other decision he had made in his entire life had quite the gravity of this one. After a few moments of breathing, it was time.

"Alright, I'm ready."

The Nighthawk positioned at the control panel pulled the switch to open the Vault. For the first time in two-hundred and thirteen years, the door to Vault 47 began to open. It made a deafening screeching noise as age worn steel scraped against the tracks that held it in place. The drill pulled the gear away from it's setting, and then rolled it away with a loud clanking noise. When the noise had died down, Mark turned back to the gathering one last time.

"Alright, I'll be back in one week. Make sure the door's open for me then. If I don't come back… well… don't send anyone after me, I guess."

With one last hesitant smile, he turned and stepped through the threshold into the earthen tunnel beyond. Up ahead he could see the light filtering through a chain-link fence, and he stepped through into the great unknown.


	6. The Real World

Mark cringed at the grinding of the Vault Door as it slid back in place. He turned around, conscious that now his decision to leave the Vault was not one he could turn back on. But he hadn't died on the first step out the door, so that was a good sign. He paused to contemplate exactly how much trouble he'd gotten himself into, and realized that whatever was out here couldn't be worse than what he'd just left behind, even if it was a deathtrap. Steeling himself, he walked briskly up to the chain-link fence at the end of the stone tunnel. The fence itself was boarded up, so he could only peer through cracks, but his first glimpse was more than enough to convince Mark that this truly was the Wasteland. Everything looked so desolate and bleak, he had to step back and reconsider his plan. He sat down against the wall of the cave, puffed up his cheeks, and slowly breathed out, unsure of how to proceed. Then, for the first time since he set foot out the door, he remembered what he was carrying.

Mark set the rusted toolbox on his lap, leaning the walking pipe against the wall. Opening it, he spotted the hobo sack and realized he hadn't even opened it. He undid the knot and peered in at the contents. Sitting atop a small pile of 9mm ammunition was a folded copy of Lad's Life, a rolled up baseball cap, and a single stimpack. The sight of the hypodermic stimulant would have knocked him on his backside, had he been standing up. Stimpacks were incredibly valuable, able to accelerate the healing process from days to a matter of seconds. Mark wrapped the hypodermic in the cloth of the hobo sack. He would have to keep this safe until the most crucial moment.

Having seen the amount of faith the survivors had put in him, Mark's resolve hardened. He ejected the clip from his pistol, loaded it to full capacity, and slid it back in. His gun holstered once more, the young man stood up, donned the cap, turned and opened the door to the Wastes.

Stretching out before him was desert as far as the eye could see. Rocks and dust covered everything, punctuated by the odd boulder or ruin. Small, tough brown shrubs took root in the dry and dusty soil now and then, and patches of rugged, dun-colored grass were sparse. The sky was masked by gray clouds, with only occasional breaks for sunlight. Behind him were low mountains, blocking his view further west.

Mark turned a couple of knobs on the miniature computer attached to his arm, bringing up the map function. A ping went out from the Pip-Boy, and the immediate terrain was recorded and sent up to one of the Vault-Tec satellites still operational in Earth's orbit. It examined the information, and sent Mark's position on the Earth back to him. He found out that he was standing in what was central Washington. The closest town was directly to the east, a small town, by the name of Quincy.

_That's probably my best bet._

Mark made up his mind. Quincy wasn't so far away, no more than a few miles. If there was anywhere he should begin, that would be it. Taking a moment before he set out, Mark entered a new waypoint on his map, marking his location as Vault 47. The journey began on the cement plateau that Vault-Tec had manufactured as the only indication of a Vault in the vicinity. A pair of booths guarded the bridge that connected the entrance platform to the opposite side of a riverbed. The bridge spanned what was once the mighty Columbia River, now a mere stream trickling among the rocks.

Once across the bridge, Mark set out east along the remnants of the State Route 28 highway, checking the occasional rusted hull of a car for anything interesting. He found nothing but dust and old memories long since abandoned or forgotten. The world was abnormally quiet. No longer could he hear the comforting clanking rumble of the pipe works, or the chirping of the monitoring systems. The only sound was of his footsteps and the occasional weak breeze. He found himself wishing for any sort of ambient sound. The wide space of the open world didn't bother him quite as much as he thought it would. It was staggering, to be certain, but not overwhelming. Mark had often imagined such a place as a child, constructing imaginary landscapes from the images he'd seen in old geographical archives.

But the lack of even a whisper of activity was unsettling. From the day he was born he had been surrounded by people, always active and always talking. Even in the dark of the curfew hours, the walls would comfort him with the low, melodic hum of electronics. The monsters he imagined as a child had been frightening at first, but eventually they became his friends, and a constant reminder that he was never alone. But out here, in the barren emptiness of the Wasteland, not a single twitch of life could be seen for miles around. For the first time in his life, he was well and truly alone.

But before he could begin to truly grasp the notion, he heard a noise off to his left. Brandishing the pole-pipe, Mark turned to search for the cause of the odd hissing noise. He barely managed to get the pole up in time to block the bared teeth of the creature leaping for his throat. Sizable teeth they were, he noticed. The four great incisors trying to bite at him through the pole were each easily a hand-length and about half of a hand-width. The squat hairless creature they belonged to was no pushover either. Although it was only the size of a dog, its strength matched and probably exceeded his own. He could feel his arms weakening, and the creature only pushed harder, sensing impending victory.

Fast running out of time, Mark saw an opportunity and took it. At the same time that the dog-thing pushed, Mark pulled the pipe above his head, using its momentum against it. The creature stumbled forward, and before it could resume its attack, Mark had drawn his hunting knife and plunged it into the beast's throat.

Blood poured out in gouts from the wound, and as the creature tried to pull away, Mark realized that it couldn't remove itself from the pole. He must have severed some of the muscles it needed to work its horrible jaw. Mark leapt to his feet and snatched up the pole. Calling on the strength of adrenaline fueled desperation, Mark flipped the beast over and began bashing its head against the asphalt. He didn't stop slamming the pole down, even after the creature stopped moving and the pavement became darkened and wet.

Eventually, the pole-pipe snapped, partly from its cheap manufacture, and partly from stress and repeated jarring. Only then did Mark stop and pull away from the grisly scene. Feeling drained, he leaned against a car and realized that his hands and face were covered in the beast's blood. Now that his ears were no longer filled with the sound of his own rushing blood, his head cleared and he was able to recall exactly what the thing was. He had seen pictures of it in the Vault's animal encyclopedia. The creature was no dog, but rather a rodent. It closely resembled the pictures of mole rats, though likely changed from two hundred years of mutation.

Mark could feel the bile rising in his throat. He turned away and swallowed hard, forcing himself to resist the urge to double over and hurl. His first encounter in the Wastelands hadn't gone as he had hoped. _But then what did I expect? That it would be a happy place full of kittens and rainbows? The creatures had to adapt to live in such a harsh and hostile climate. The mole rat was merely acting out of a sense of survival, and so did I._

The thought helped calm his shaky nerves, and after a few deep breaths Mark was able to turn and face the consequences of living in the post-apocalyptic world. He looked down at the mole rat, and realized that he could probably eat the thing, if necessary. But the prospect made his stomach turn over, so, after retrieving his blade and cleaning it vigorously, he left the carcass for the buzzards without a second thought.

As the minutes passed him by, so did the scenery, brown and rarely changing as it was. The further away he got from the scene of his struggle, the better he felt. The more he pondered the fight, the more he was able to come to terms with the outcome. In this bleak land, survival was paramount. Anything living needed to take what it could get, by force if necessary. It was unfortunate that it was a struggle to make it from day to day, but perhaps, with a little human ingenuity, things could be made a little bit better. Who knew? Maybe he could convince people from other Vaults to leave. Maybe they could set up a community, and start supporting each other. Maybe in a few generations the group could start rebuilding civilization, or start one of their own.

This train of thought cheered Mark up considerably. With this lightened mood came hunger. He realized he hadn't eaten since the night before. A small copse of blackened trees and boulders looked a good place to stop, so Mark sat down with his back to one rock and popped the catch on his toolbox. The package of Instamash opened fairly easily, and a half bottle of water and a minute of vigorous shaking later, Mark had a meal. Using his knife as a spoon, he cautiously maneuvered some of the processed potatoes to his mouth, careful to avoid cutting himself. He was only able to get a mouthful out of it though, for as soon as he swallowed the first bite, he heard a voice behind him.

"Well, well. What have we here?"

Startled, Mark jumped up and whipped around. Coming around the side of the boulder were three ragged looking men, all grinning wickedly at Mark. They all wore piecemeal armor, thrown together from whatever pieces of scrap metal and leather they could find. One of them even had a half of a tire strapped to his shoulder. Two of the strangers carried makeshift melee weapons—a foot and a half of lead pipe and a kitchen knife—but one of them carried a Chinese pistol. It was holstered, but the man, obviously the leader by the way the other two positioned themselves at his sides, postured himself in a way that clearly displayed it as a threat. The man on his left, the one with the knife, snickered and spoke in a grating whine.

"Looks to me like we got us our next meal ticket."

Mark swallowed nervously, trying to size them up. The gunman and the knife-wielder were about as calm as he could expect highwaymen to be, but the one on the gunman's right, the one clutching the lead pipe hard enough to turn his knuckles white, was agitated. He shifted constantly from foot to foot, and was breathing heavily. Mark could distinctly make out his dilated pupils, and he seemed to be giggling at something nobody else saw. The man was obviously coming off of a particularly good high, and wanted blood. Then he blurted out his say, the edgy tone in his voice becoming easily apparent.

"Come on, Burn, lemme smack 'im aroun' a bit. I ain't offed no one in days."

"Shut up, Axe."

Alarmed, Mark decided he had to state his case.

"Now hold on. There's no need for that. I've got food and water here enough for each of you. You can take it and then be on your way." Mark let the hunting knife hang loosely at his side, wanting not to appear threatening. The leader, Burn, chuckled.

"Naw, see, that's not how this is goin' down. We'll take your food, and whatever else you got, and then sell you to Simon and his gang."

The knife wielder licked his lips. "Looks like 'e'll fetch a pretty price, don' 'e, Burn?"

Burn smirked. "That he does, Marv. That he does."

"Come on, you don't need to do this," Mark pleaded. This encounter was not going to end well, Mark realized, and began backing off, wanting to turn and run. He tightened his grip on the hunting knife and tensed up his legs. The training with his father was beginning to kick in.

"I've had jus' about enough o' you." Axe charged forward, pipe arm poised to strike. Marv followed, more to make sure Axe didn't kill their prey than to stop him. But Mark was ready.

As Axe swung the bludgeon down, Mark stepped into the swing, letting Axe's arm smack down harmlessly on his shoulder. Instinct took over, and Mark plunged the knife through the soft leather jacket, between Axe's ribs and into his heart. He only got a glimpse of the look of shock and confusion that crossed the would-be killer's face before he yanked the knife out and turned to face his second opponent.

Marv opened up with a quick back handed slash at Mark's midsection, followed by an upward slash at his face when he pulled his stomach out of the way. Mark bent backwards to dodge this, and realized his mistake. This left him terribly off balance and in no position to dodge the downward stab that was meant to be Marv's finishing move. But Mark's reactions were faster, and he dropped to one knee and grabbed Marv's wrist with his free hand, just as it was about to plunge into his chest. The hunting knife found its mark in Marv's elbow, and Mark pulled down on his wrist, breaking the arm. As Marv shrieked in pain, Mark pulled the knife from his arm, and jabbed it up into Marv's eye, through his skull and into his brain. Mark felt the sickening crunch all the way up through his arm and along his spine. But as Marv dropped, the sickened feeling was replaced by another.

Fiery pain erupted in his left shoulder and he jerked around, dropping the knife, just as the loud crack of gunfire sounded in his head. Turning to face Burn, he saw the Chinese pistol drawn and lowered, and Burn watching hesitantly to see if the shot would be enough to drop the boy before him. But that hesitation would be his undoing, as Mark drew his pistol and put two holes in Burn's chest, one in the sternum and one in the heart, before he could take aim once more. Burn collapsed, and lay still, and it seemed ages before Mark was calm enough to lower his gun. By then, the adrenaline was wearing off, and the pain came surging back. It was unlike anything Mark had ever experienced. The slug had penetrated straight through his chest, and out his back, through his shoulder blade. Whenever he moved his left arm, he could feel the sickening grinding of fractured bone. Somehow, the bullet hadn't pierced his heart or his lung, but breathing still brought on fresh waves of pain. The wind blew through the hole in his chest, and he could feel the white-hot burning ache all through his arm and up and down his spine. He stumbled over to his toolbox, and slumped down next to it. If there was an appropriate time to use his stimpak, now would be it. He took off his shirt, wincing as the wet cloth pulled away from the exposed flesh, and took the stimpak from the rolled up hand towel. Glad that he wouldn't need to pull the bullet from the wound, he uncapped the hypodermic needle on the end of the device.

He took a deep breath, and plunged the needle into his shoulder.

At first, there was a sharp pain, but insignificant in comparison to the pain in his chest. Then, a comforting warmth spread from the injection site as the pressurized plunger introduced the healing solution into his bloodstream. He marveled at the wondrous properties of the formula as it used his own muscle to push the pieces of his shoulder blade back together and began fusing them back into one piece. Meanwhile, all the minor scrapes and bruises all over his body were disappearing, and the end of the hole on his back began shrinking. Muscles stitched themselves back together and the skin sealed itself over them. The process itched furiously, but he restrained himself from scratching.

Unfortunately, the stimpak could only heal so much before using up its resources, and so it stopped before the wound was completely healed. He still had a hole in his chest, but it was slightly smaller, and the pain had lessened somewhat. It still stung considerably, but it was no longer bleeding as profusely. Mark tore his shirt into strips and wrapped them around his right shoulder and under his armpit, gritting his teeth against the agonizing, but not quite debilitating pain. Not enough of the shirt was left to make a sling, and he couldn't bear to look at the corpses of the highwaymen, let alone take their blood-stained clothing for use as bandages. He was close enough to vomiting already.

So he set off, holding the toolbox in his good hand and trying to agitate his injury as little as possible. Before he got very far, he began stumbling, and his vision blurred. The world seemed to be tilting around him, and he couldn't think straight. He realized, in some corner of his mind, that he was delirious from blood-loss. But he could only think of walking. After ages of stumbling along the ruined highway, swerving left and right, he came upon the remainder of what was once known as Quincy, although now all the homes and buildings were little more than large piles of rubble. Despite his growing confusion, and inability to think clearly, he was able to find a still-standing structure—the remnants of an office building, though everything above the second floor had toppled and all of the windows were empty of glass—and staggered inside. He reeled as the walls spun around him, and he promptly blacked out.

When he awoke, it had become dark, so his first thought was that he was dead. But when he pushed himself up from the ground, he saw that moonlight was filtering in through the broken windows. Dizziness nearly overwhelmed him as he struggled to his feet, but he managed to prop himself against a wall. He watched, entranced, as the dust motes danced among the rays of pale light, moving to a haunting waltz that no one could hear.

But Mark could hear it.

It took him several long moments, but he finally realized that the music he was hearing was indeed real, and not conjured by his imagination. Stumbling over the threshold of the building, he searched blearily for the source of the melody. All around him the world was painted in dark colors, bruising the landscape. The cold night air was only rendered more ghostly by the pale light. Mark's breath came out in clouds, fogging up wherever he turned his head. But for all his searching, he couldn't find a clue as to the source of the eerie tinkling music.

Off in the corner of his vision, a flicker of red caught his eye. Immediately, he set out in that direction. The flicker of red gradually became flickering red and orange light. As he moved closer, the light became brighter, until Mark found the source. In a dilapidated, single-story building a campfire crackled merrily. Various bits and pieces of things littered the space within. A cannibalized motorcycle sat collecting dust in one corner. But none of these things held Mark's attention quite as much as what was in the center of the room.

On a sleeping bag next to the fire sat a girl about his age. Mark stood still on his perch on the pile of rubble, shocked by her attractiveness. She wore her shoulder-length, sandy-blonde hair in a ponytail, reviewing a very lovely face. Her bright blue eyes sparkled as she watched the music box in her hand, standing out among the smudges of dirt and grease. Her smile creased her eyes and dimpled her cheeks, adding a softness that contrasted her sharp jaw line.

Mark wanted to move, to say something, but his body wouldn't respond. He felt paralyzed, he felt heavy.

He felt tired.

Suddenly, his legs gave out from under him, and the world went spinning around him in a whirlwind of grays and cacophonic noise. Finally he stopped, feeling cold stone against his face. Weekly, he struggled to prop himself on one arm. As he did, he noticed with disinterest that a pool of red was growing on the ground.

"Oh."

A second later he realized he'd spoken aloud. Off in the distance, he could hear a click, as if a gun had been cocked. He managed to lift his head, though it felt as though it weighed a ton. Much to his dismay, Mark found himself looking into the cold, black eyes of a double-barreled shotgun. The girl stood behind them, watching Mark with a mixture of fright and worry. Mark wanted to comfort her, to tell her that he meant no harm. But all he could manage was one word.

"Help."

Then darkness took him.


End file.
